


Feedback

by AVMabs



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Awkwardness, Babies, Crushes, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Parental Roy Mustang, Pregnancy, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 21:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14627403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVMabs/pseuds/AVMabs
Summary: Navigating his feelings for the Emperor of Xing and his closeness to becoming an uncle, Al learns a thing or two about the link between emotion and physical sensation.





	Feedback

There are few things Al dislikes about having a body, but he is decidedly _not_ a fan of the fact that the human body can both physically feel and physically dictate his emotions.  The first time it had happened, he had thought he was sick because his heart was beating too fast and his skin was breaking out in a thin sheen of sweat.  _Ed_ had thought he was sick, and Al had spent two hours in bed before realising he felt _fine_.

Al sits, then, on the train, and waits for the platform to come into view.  Winry talks up sharing feelings, and Al wonders if it might help him puzzle out his butterflies and sweaty palms.  Ed comes into view, and Al’s heart jumps.  That part, at least, will never get old.  He wonders for a moment where Winry is, then reasons that the shop must be busy around this time, with people getting their automail replaced over the midsummer break.

Al leaps off the train towards where Ed is standing with a grin and an arm outstretched for Al’s suitcase.  Al glances down at Ed’s arm, then back up at Ed, and grips his suitcase more tightly.  He does _not_ need Ed to hold his things for him.  Ed looks up at him expectantly, blinking.  He drops his arm and settles for pulling Al into a hug.

Ed is warm, and Al can smell oil on him.  When they pull away, Al smiles up at Ed.  “Been trying your hand at mechanics?” he asks.

Ed smirks, evidently keeping something a secret.  “Kind of,” he says.  “I’m not too good at it – Winry had to teach me what the different tools are for.”  He pauses.  “I thought a wrench was a wrench,” he sighs.

Al chuckles.  “You’ll get there,” he says, and pats Ed on the back.

Ed gives another sigh.  “I’ll have to,” he says, then glances at Al, anxiety clouding his features.  “Forget I said that.” 

Al feels a wave of something that can’t quite get out crowding his body, and he thinks it might be fear.  Winry could be sick or injured or any number of things.  “Is everything okay?”

Ed smiles a little too widely and bares too many of his teeth.  “Everything’s great!” he exclaims.  “Now, c’mon, there’s apple pie waiting for you at home, and Winry’s desperate to see you!” 

Al relaxes.  “I can’t wait to see her,” he says, and for good measure, adds: “and her apple pie is going to taste amazing after all this time!” 

Ed makes a face.  “She’s making it once a day,” he groans.  “She can’t eat it all herself, but she craves it…”

_Oh_.  Al smirks, but keeps his mouth shut.  That’s why Ed’s being cagey.  The pulse of nervousness ebbs into excitement, and when he’s sure Ed is ahead of him, Al masks a grin, and it’s not all down to the promise of apple pie.

They reach the porch at Resembool, and Ed begins rummaging in his bag.  Instinctively, Al puts a hand on Ed’s shoulder.  “Aren’t you going to ring the doorbell?” 

Ed frowns, then seems to follow Al’s train of thought.  “It’s my house too, now, remember?  I have key rights.”

Al giggles.  “You’ve got a key and everything,” he says, sounding remarkably like a schoolboy.  He doesn’t care – he can’t believe his brother is being an _adult_. 

Ed looks at him incredulously, blinking.  “It’s my _marital home_ ,” he says.  “My _family’s home_.”  He stops and rubs his forehead, looking frustrated.  “Ah.  I keep doing that.”

“Doing what?” asks Al, though he knows full-well what Ed is doing.  Best to humour him, he thinks.  Ed only lets things out like that when he’s excited.

Ed snaps up into standing.  “Uh, nothing!”  He opens the door and ushers Al inside.  “Come on!” he says, bouncing on his toes like he’s six, not 20.  “Winry!” he calls, “I’m here!  I have cargo!”

Al looks at Ed and narrows his eyes.  Cargo indeed.  Ed grins, apparently enjoying Al’s reaction.  Al is about to make his own comeback, but then Winry is in the room, and Al is speechless. 

“ _What_ ,” he says flatly, unable to muster more expression.  He turns to Ed.  “You – _what_?”

Winry grins brightly at Ed.  “You managed to keep it a secret!” she says happily.  “I thought he’d pick up on something!”

Al, flustered, glances from Ed to Winry.  “I did,” he says.  “I knew you were pregnant, I just… Ed is still just handing you tools?”

Winry snorts and rubs her belly.  “You can lead a horse to water,” she says, and pulls Al into a hug.  Al feels something next to his tummy, and his heart swells as he feels it again and again.  Winry pulls away, grinning from ear-to-ear.  “Baby likes you!” she exclaims. 

Al blushes a bright pink.  “Baby likes me,” he says in cheerful disbelief, and feels for the thousandth time that having a body is a blessed thing. 

*

As soon as Al begins to forget his butterflies and sweaty palms, a letter adorned in familiar handwriting slides through the door, and he has butterflies all over again as he sits at Ed and Winry’s kitchen table and stares at it.  The door swings open, and Al catches the scent of a coffee brewed so strongly that it can only belong to Ed.  He glances up, then back down at the letter.  Ed clunks about behind him, apparently making a pot of coffee, but masquerading as the drummer in a marching band. 

Eventually, the sound stops, and Ed turns.  “Are you going to open that?” he asks. 

“Maybe,” mumbles Al. 

The weight of an elbow presses down on Al’s head, and he ducks away, catching Ed’s eye and damning himself to conversation.  “Go on,” says Ed.  “It’s just a letter.” 

“…Alright,” says Al, feeling the butterflies multiply tenfold.  He places one sweaty thumb under the flap, then turns it over.  Ed chokes from behind him.

“That’s the royal seal!” he exclaims.  “Ling _never_ writes to me!”

Al feels his face turning pink and hot, and quickly breaks the seal.  It feels like treason to break the royal Xingese seal, even though it’s the only way to read the letter.  “Happy?” he asks Ed.

Ed rocks back on his heels, smirking.  “You’re acting weird,” he says.  His face drops.  “Did Ling do something?”

Flustered, Al shakes his head.  “No!” he cries.  “Of course not!  I just… didn’t expect a letter!”

Ed stares at him suspiciously, and Al feels the pink, hot feeling spreading to his ears.  “He’s probably just trying to mooch food off us,” he says. 

Al forces a laugh, and it comes out so high and nervous that Ed’s eyes widen, and he squeezes Al’s shoulder in alarm.  The two share a glance, and Al is sure Ed is reading the panic swimming around in his eyes.  A moment later, Ed’s mouth drops open, and Al’s suspicions are confirmed. 

Ed picks his jaw up and has to press an arm to his chest as he chokes on his own breath.  “You have a thing for _Ling_?” he says, disbelieving.

Al ducks his head and stares at the table.  “A little,” he admits.

“Does he have a thing for you?” asks Ed.

It’s Al’s turn to widen his eyes and choke on his own breath.  “Of course not!” he says.  “I’m a hick and he’s a king!” 

Ed’s eyes take on a steely, furious edge.  “He said that?”

“No!” cries Al.  “No, of course he didn’t – it’s just…” 

Ed pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Read your letter.” 

Al pulls the letter out and squints at it, occasionally stumbling over Ling’s handwriting.  He’d worked as Ling’s voluntary scribe after seeing his writing in Xing, and now he has to learn to read it all over again.  Al glances up at Ed.  “He’s coming to Central for a political meeting,” he says, then pauses.  “I think.  It could say poultry, not political.” 

Ed leans on the table.  “When?”

Al scans the letter again, finding himself lost and adrift in Ling’s handwriting.  When he finally sees the date, he feels his heart pelting up and down through his stomach and back up into his throat again and again, as if it was doing a truly horrific bungee jump without Al’s permission.  “A week,” he squeaks, and gulps, then looks up at Ed.

“You have to go,” urges Ed.  “Find out if he likes you!” 

“Is that – is that how it works?” asks Al.  He’s fairly certain it isn’t, but Ed must know more, given that he is married, and Al is not.

Ed bites his lip, apparently deep in thought.  “I don’t know,” he says confidently. 

Al groans and buries his face in his hands.  “I’m going to embarrass myself,” he says.  “I’m going to do something stupid like trip over an official’s feet or… or choke on my chicken, if it’s a poultry meeting.”

Ed pats Al’s back, and it is not comforting.

*

“Sorry I can’t come with you,” says Ed, sounding preoccupied and not very sorry at all.

Al smiles.  “It’s okay, Brother, you have something more important to do here.” 

“Yeah,” Ed agrees, and glances back into the house, where Winry is building and baking her way through the early stages of labour.  “Good luck,” he says. 

“Good luck to _you_ ,” says Al, and then stares at the ground, feeling guilty.  “Maybe I should be here as well... You might need someone in the house, and I can postpone or get a later train.” 

Ed looks at him sternly.  “You have to _go_ ,” he urges.  “I can hold it together here.”

“If you’re sure…” says Al hesitantly.

Ed grips his shoulders and looks him in the eye.  “I’m _sure_ ,” he says.  “If there are too many people in the house, it’ll just be more frustrating.”

Al breathes out slowly, then smiles, a determined glimmer crossing his eyes as he meets Ed’s.  “I’ll be back,” he says.  “If the baby comes before I’m back, tell him that Uncle Al will be there soon to spoil him.”

Ed laughs, face relaxing in a way it had not since Winry had jabbed him awake in an excited sort of pain in the middle of the night.  “You bet I will,” he says grinningly. 

*

Al hops off the train at Central, feeling oddly out of place, though there is a plaque with his name engraved upon it on the wall of military headquarters, and the first biography is in the hands of a publishing house.  He turns his collar up and feels relieved, amongst the crowds, that the people know him as his armour rather than his body.  He isn’t sure he can handle autographs and people recognising him before he’s checked into the hotel and spent 12 hours writing confessions on the complementary pad of paper.  He is going to see Ling in less than 24 hours, and the thought sends butterflies up through his spine, invading synapses and making every part of his body feel tingly and breathless.

“Alphonse!” comes a voice from the platform.  A few people glance around and recognition floods into some of their eyes when they see him.  Al turns red and ducks his head, making his way towards the voice.

It is Lieutenant Havoc leaning heavily on one cane.  He had been using two canes the last time Al had seen him, and Al feels glad that the Lieutenant is recovering.  Al smiles and waves, then walks into hearing distance.  “It’s nice to see you, Sir,” says Al.  “I wasn’t expecting someone to collect me – is everything okay?  How did you know I’d be here?”

Havoc grins, accidentally chewing the end of his cigarette and making a face.  “Call me Jean, kid,” he says.  “It’s not like Ed’s in the military anymore.”  He pauses and takes the cigarette out of his mouth.  “I’ve gotta start getting the new ones they make with the filters on the end,” he mutters, then clears his throat.  “Your brother called ahead.  The General wants to see you.”

Al’s mind floats to General Armstrong, and he goes cold for just a moment before remembering that General means _Mustang_ now.  “Oh,” says Al, and smiles.  “It’ll be nice to see him!” 

Havoc smirks.  “He’s pretty excited himself – thinks you might be able to help him with the Emperor’s Letter.” 

Al giggles.  “I’m not so sure about that,” he says.  “I was his scribe when I was in Xing – he had to dictate for me.”  He pauses.  “His handwriting is worse than _brother’s_.”

Havoc snorts, then turns and takes a step, gesturing for Al to follow.  They both bundle into Havoc’s car, and then they’re slowly trundling through Central City traffic during rush hour.  Havoc glances at Al, who is pleased to finally be able to fit into the passenger seat.  “I was expecting Ed to be with you.” 

Al smiles softly.  “He has something bigger to deal with today.”  He can’t help the touch of excitement that colours his tone of voice, but he finds himself unable to care. 

“Sounds important,” says Havoc.  “The General might be disappointed.  He’s been working on his quips when he can’t be bothered with paperwork.” 

“I’ll pass them on,” says Al, because he truly does enjoy gently ribbing Edward.

They fall silent as Havoc drives, and Al is lost in thought when the car finally pulls into the military’s car park.  Then Havoc is leading him upstairs, looking tired and breathless when they reach the top of the stairs.  Al offers an arm, and Havoc takes it gratefully.  Neither of them addresses the gesture, and Havoc lets go and straightens up when they reach the General’s office. 

Hawkeye opens the door before either of them has the chance to knock.  She takes them both in and smiles.  “Hello, both of you,” she says.  She glances at Havoc, turns, and sits down.  Alphonse follows, and then Havoc does, resting his cane against the desk.  Hawkeye turns to Al.  “The General will be with you in a moment,” she says.  

“Thank you,” says Al.  “Is there a particular reason he wants to see me?”

Havoc smirks, and Hawkeye glances down at the desk.  Neither of them answers the question, and Al fears he will get even less of an answer if he tries to ask outright.  Instead, Hawkeye gives a soft smile.  “How’s Ms Rockbell?” she asks.  “She must be due any day now.”

Al gives a soft and excited smile, cheeks dimpling.  “She’s in early labour,” he says, unable to keep the gentle awe from his voice.  “Brother is with her.” 

Hawkeye’s smile widens, and Al can see that although she’s starting some crow’s feet (stress, he thinks, too much stress), the glimmer in her eyes is young.  It makes him feel like Hawkeye is home, and it’s a soft feeling, but as physical as the butterflies he feels in his stomach and his chest thinking about Ling.  “I’m happy for them,” she says.  “I’m happy for all of you.”

Alphonse feels like a little boy, and he wishes he could butt his head against Hawkeye’s shoulder like he used to do with his mother.  Instead, he settles for letting a pink seep into his cheeks, and he gives her a boyish grin. 

The door swings open at that moment, to reveal Mustang standing in the doorway and staring through a pair of thick glasses.  It takes less than a moment for Al to realise that General Mustang looks _entirely_ too manic.  The light is glinting from his glasses, shrouding his eyes.

“Hello, sir,” says Al. 

Mustang grins.  “Good afternoon, Alphonse.  Come on in.”

Alphonse follows Mustang into the office, and notes with a heavy heart the cane lying against his desk.  Mustang’s eyes are supposed to get better, but clearly, they aren’t there yet.  Still, the General seems cheerful enough as he plops into his desk chair and surveys Al.  “I trust you’re well?” he says. 

“Yes, sir!” says Al, enthusiastically.  He hasn’t had a cold for a whole six weeks! 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mustang says, and it’s the sincerest thing Al has heard from him yet.  Not a moment later, Mustang is pressing his fingers together, creating the appearance of a roof, and Al can’t help but feel trepidation about what Mustang is about to do.  “Your brother called ahead,” he says.  “Which means two things: you help me, and I help you.”

Al’s eyes widen.  He is deeply confused, above all else.  “I don’t know what that means,” he says.

“You help me read His Majesty the Emperor’s Letter, and I help you court him.”  For a moment, Al forgets his overwhelmed surprise to snicker at Ling being called _His Majesty the Emperor_.  It floods back, of course.  He’s sure Mustang is joking about helping him with Ling.  He _must_ be.  There’s no way a General in the Amestrian army would help a kid from the country romance an Emperor.

“S-sir,” says Al.  “ _I’m_ struggling to read Ling’s handwriting.”

Mustang deflates, just slightly.  He rubs his temples.  “Well,” he says.  “We think it’s either a political meeting or a poultry meeting.”

Al nods.  “Me too.”

“Hell,” says Mustang.  “I don’t know what we’re going to do if it turns out to be the other.”

Oh.  Well, Alphonse can help, there.  “Make it a conference,” he says, “and hire catering with specific orders for poultry to be on the menu.”

Mustang blinks.  “That was simple,” he says. 

“Occam’s razor,” grins Al.  He knows he’s channelling Ed, just a little, but he’s right.  If he’s right, he’ll channel anyone. 

“Occam’s razor, huh?” says Mustang, apparently musing on something.  “Doesn’t work for everything.”

Al blinks.  “Well, no – there are always individual differences in either party that mean Occam’s Razor isn’t always reasonable and you have to go for something more complicated…”

Mustang holds a hand up.  Al stops talking.  “No,” says Mustang.  “I meant it doesn’t work when you’re courting.”

Oh.  Al feels his face going red.  “I-I thought you were joking about helping me court Ling.” 

“I was not,” says Mustang.  “Now, what are your thoughts?”

Al is going to be conservative.  Really, he means to be.  It’s just, when Mustang is looking at him and he thinks about Ling and he thinks about himself, he feels something flood into the pit of his stomach which feels altogether too much like the story he had once read about the Alchemist who had travelled the world to find a treasure and given up everything along the way.  “I-I’m a kid from the country,” he says.  “I’m a kid from the country, and Ling is an Emperor, and I don’t even know how to handle having a body yet, and Ling is so busy and I still don’t know what I want to do with work, a-and Ling is – he’s beautiful and he’s ambitious and he’s intelligent and I’m – I’m Alphonse.”

Al is standing in the middle of Mustang’s office, bright red and breathing heavily, with a thick sheen of sweat adorning his forehead and a pair of over-bright eyes.   He glances around and feels himself growing redder.  And redder.  Mustang hasn’t said anything yet.  And redder. 

Mustang blinks.  “Just Alphonse?” he repeats, apparently stunned.

Al runs his hands over his face, embarrassed to find himself shaking, just a little.  “Oh, no,” he says.  “I’m sorry.  I talked too much!  You didn’t need to hear all that.”  He pauses and edges towards the door.  “I’ll just – I’ll go, and I’ll leave you to it!  You don’t need to deal with me, sir!”

“No,” says Mustang quickly.  “Take a seat.”

Al lets his eyes wander to the door before locking eyes with Mustang.  One look at the General has him perching on the edge of one of the couches.  It’s leather.  If Al was Mustang, he would not have a leather couch.  Not enough traction for comfortable perching.  Al is half holding himself onto the edge of the seat, rather than the seat taking him without letting him slide down. 

“Just Alphonse?” says Mustang again.

“Yes, sir,” says Al.

Mustang leans back in his seat, looking decidedly unhappy.  He leans forward, then back again.  He rests his head on his hands.  After he’s repeated this several times – enough that Al is considering calling Hawkeye into the room – he finally looks Al in the eye.  “Just Alphonse,” he says for a third time.  “You really think that?”  His voice is quiet now, and Al feels he must have some responsibility to try and defuse the situation.

“I mean – you know how it is – I-I’m from Resembool and – and…”  He trails off.  Mustang is still looking at him, and Al wonders if he’s even blinked.

Mustang takes a deep breath and rubs his temples.  “Did you know that General and Major Armstrong have three sisters?” 

Al shakes his head and tries to figure out what Mustang might be trying to tell him.  “No, sir.”

“They do,” says Mustang.  “You’ve never heard of them, but they hail from Central, and they’re some of the richest people in the country.”

Al fidgets.

“Earlier this morning, I took an interview from one of the publishing houses.  They were _desperate_ to know what the great Elric brothers were like in person.” 

Al can’t help but let his curiosity get the better of him – he’s still an Elric, when it comes down to it.  “What did you say?”

Mustang smirks.  “I said that the older one was a temperamental pipsqueak with a Napoleon complex, and that the younger one is very responsible.”  He pauses.  “I also said I had never seen children as fired up and intelligent as the two of you.”

Al gives a tiny smile.  “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re from the country,” says Mustang.  “Sure, I’m from downtown Central, and I can tell you exactly who needs to be kicked out of the bar.  Neither of us are where people thought we’d be when we were kids.  That hasn’t stopped you professionally.  It shouldn’t stop you in your personal life, either.” 

Al looks away from Mustang, embarrassed to find that he is beginning – just slightly – to tear up.  Mustang, to his excellent credit, organises things on his desk until Al looks back.  And Al does, face set.  “Well,” he says.  “Then I just need a plan.”

Mustang smiles and crosses his arms.  “Those are the words I was waiting to hear,” he says, then opens his desk drawer.  “I’m one step ahead of you.”  He pulls out a few rolls of paper and gestures for Al to come up to the desk and look. 

“This is detailed,” says Al. 

“It’s just the seating plan,” says Mustang.  “You’ll be with His Majesty the Emperor and his party, as well as myself and the Lieutenant Colonel.”

It takes Al a moment to realise that Lieutenant Colonel is referring to Hawkeye.  “Won’t it seem strange?” asks Al.  “I’m not a country official.”  He pauses.  “Shouldn’t the Fuhrer be at the table?”

Mustang shakes his head.  “Fuhrer Grumman is busy with peace agreements in Aerugo, and you’re a competent Xingese speaker.” 

Al frowns.  “So are you.”

“The public doesn’t know that,” says Mustang.  “But they know that you are.  Ergo, it makes sense for you to be in place as an interpreter.” 

“I suppose…” says Al, deciding it probably isn’t worth pointing out that Ling and Lan Fan both speak Amestrian as well as any native speaker.  He wonders if that filters into Mustang’s plan.

“Now,” Mustang continues.  “I’ve called ahead, and one Mei Chang is very keen on helping with the matchmaking, so she’ll also be on the table.” 

Al grins.  It’ll be lovely to see Mei again, and the arrangement already seems less nerve-wracking.  “How nice!” he says.

“Her cat will not be attending,” Mustang adds, quite firmly, face taking on a haunted expression.

Al snickers.  Xiao Mei will, of course, be attending.  Mei is sneaky, and Xiao Mei will not let her go anywhere alone.  Mustang glances up and raises an eyebrow, and Al pretends to cough.  “Of course, sir,” he says, once he’s regained control of himself.  “I know that you and Xiao Mei have a rocky relationship.”

“Quite,” says Mustang drily.  He gets to his feet, leaving his cane behind.  He seems confident, but Al doesn’t miss the way his fingers are outstretched, as if he is afraid of falling.  “Lieutenant Colonel,” he says, opening the door.  “I’ve explained the table plan.  I need you to explain the evening.”

*

Al goes back to his hotel entirely frazzled by Mustang’s plans.  They are incredibly detailed, and Al is almost certain that they will end up going wrong in some way, shape or form.  He wonders how Mustang got around doing his paperwork to write them up, then decides he doesn’t want to know.  Instead, he picks up the telephone and dials an ever familiar number.

“Elric residence,” comes a tinny but nonetheless familiar voice.  It sounds tired.

“Brother!” says Al.  “I called to see how things are going!”

Al hears a breathy laugh coming through the phone.  It has a frantic edge, as if Ed doesn’t know the answer himself.  “They’re… going, I think,” says Ed.  “The midwife is here now, and they’ve kicked me out of the room.”

“Oh,” says Al, puzzled.  “I thought you’d agreed…”

“We did,” says Ed quickly.  “The midwife wanted to,” he lowers his voice.  “The midwife said it was standard practice to give an enema, so…”

“Okay!” says Al.  “I get it!”  He exhales.  “How are you?”

There’s a long silence. 

“Scared,” says Ed, finally.  “Excited.” 

“Do you need me to come home?”

“No!” cries Ed.  “No, absolutely not.  You stay there, and when you get back we’ll give you an armful of niece or nephew.” 

Al gives a soft giggle.  “Sounds good,” he says, because he cannot quite find the words to describe the way that his heart seems to tickle and fuzz in his chest at the thought, and he is so glad to have a body.

“Ah!” says Ed.  “The midwife is yelling at me to get some heating pads – I have to go!”

“Right!” Al yelps, wishing it had come out like normal speech.  “Good luck, brother!  Tell Winry I love her!”

And then he is putting the phone down and wondering how he is going to sleep with a head so packed with Ling and Winry and Ed and the baby.  In the end, he does not sleep at all, instead deigning to write a short thesis on the value of familial love.  By the time the sun rises, his hands are smeared with ink, and he realises he is almost certainly going to miss the welcoming parade if he doesn’t move _now_.

*

To his credit, Al is not late for the welcoming parade, and stands next to Lieutenant Colonel Hawkeye, grinning from ear to ear as he sees Mei Chang staring delightedly out of the carriage window.  He waves to her, and her entire body wakes as she waves excitedly back at him.  Perhaps, Al thinks, being with Ling won’t make him too nervous after all.

A brass fanfare announces Ling’s arrival, and the butterflies flocking into Al’s stomach assure him that being with Ling will indeed make him nervous.  He blushes a truly phosphorescent shade of red, and wonders if he isn’t wasted on alchemy when he could be just as useful as a traffic light.  The carriage moves closer and closer, and Ling turns to wave to Al’s side of the crowd.  Al looks away, redness now spreading to his ears.

Lieutenant Colonel Hawkeye’s eyes widen, and she puts a hand on Al’s elbow.  “Are you okay?  Did you choke on something?”

A throwback to the first time they’d let him take food through anything except a tube, and Al can’t help remembering the way Ed had panicked.  “No,” he squeaks.  “Just…”  He gestures towards Ling’s runway.

Hawkeye visibly relaxes.  “Ah,” she says.  “I’m sure he’s very excited to see you.”

Al feels a rush of uncomfortable heat waving up and down his body, and wonders – if he took his clothes off – whether there would be an inch of his body that isn’t red.  As it stands, he is very aware of every inch of his face.  “Thank you,” he manages, eventually.

When Al finally looks back at the runway, he finds he is torn between disappointment and relief at the fact that he is now facing the back of Ling’s carriage.  He’s blown the first hurdle.  He sighs and casts his eyes down to the pavement, hoping he isn’t like this throughout the meeting.  There is a tap on Al’s shoulder, and his head snaps up.

Hawkeye nods towards the gangway, and Al turns just in time to see Ling waving through the back window of the carriage.  Al feels a much gentler heat than before flooding his stomach, and he tells himself that Ling is waving at the _public_ , not him.  He raises a hand and twitches it weakly in a vague approximation of a wave.  He lowers his hand.  He shouldn’t have done that – stupid and deluded and… Ling is grinning and giving him a thumbs-up. 

The carriage hurtles further forward.  Al watches it until he’s sure Ling can’t see him, then buries his face in his hands and lets Hawkeye pat his shoulder.

*

Al is standing face to face with the Emperor of Xing, and all he can do is open and close his mouth.  It’s as if his time in Xing never existed.  He kicks himself.  He was Ling’s scribe, once!  Still, standing in front of Ling now, he can’t meet his eye. 

“Your Majesty the Emperor,” comes a low, decisive voice.  Al relaxes, just slightly.  Mustang saves the day again.

Ling inclines his head in a small bow, then holds a hand out to greet Mustang the Amestrian way.  Al’s interest in diplomacy escapes his grasp for a moment as he notices Mustang giving a much deeper bow.  He would have to read up on that, later.  Al comes back to himself, realising he should also probably bow.  He gives an awkward, jerky bend in Ling’s direction, and feels his heart drop into his stomach.  What an _idiot_.

Ling holds his hand out and it takes Al a moment to realise he’s supposed to shake it.  Ling’s hand is warm and soft, and Al can’t help but become conscious of his own sweaty, clammy palms.  If he had not been so preoccupied with that, he might have noticed – like everyone else – that Ling holds on for just a little too long before letting go.

Al is saved from his ruminations a second later by a high voice.  “Alphonse!”

Al turns, grinning.  “Mei!  It’s so good to see you!”  He catches her in a hug and they cling to each other for a moment, eyes bright.  “How are you?”

Mei seems to jump up and down on the balls of her feet, smile wide.  “I’m very well!” she says, and then seems to catch sight of the military officials in front of her and stiffens.  “I hope you are well,” she enunciates, then takes Al’s hand.

Al shakes it, then pulls away with a small smile and gives way for Hawkeye and Mustang.  As Hawkeye steps forward and shakes Mei’s hand, Al catches sight of an indescribable gratitude in her eyes, and his eyes seem to track down to the stark pink-white scar poking out from her collar independently of his brain.  They all owe a great deal to Mei Chang, Al thinks.

After the shaking of hands and exchanging of pleasantries, they head indoors, into a meticulously laid out room.  Al wonders how long the staff have been there.  Each place is marked with a small piece of card and a name, and Al takes his seat between Ling and Mei, noticing with relief that when Hawkeye wrote the seating plan, she made sure that Mei and Lan Fan are at least two seats away from each other.  It’s an unofficial law in Xing that they should be, but the last Amestris-Xing dinner had placed them next to each other, and Fuhrer Grumman had received an unfortunate pelting with brussels sprouts in the ensuing argument.

Al tries to remember what he knows about official dinners.  It’s all hazy – he doesn’t know if he should wait to sit, or – Hawkeye sits, and he follows her lead.  Everyone else follows in dribbles until someone steps out and announces that dinner is served, at which point almost everyone seems to be seated immediately. 

When the first course comes out, Ling’s eyes light up, and Al feels his chest spreading with a tingly, permeating warmth.  “You _did_ understand it!” exclaims Ling.  “Lan Fan was worried you might think I meant a political meeting!”  He gestures at the quail.  “I _knew_ you’d know I meant a poultry meeting!”

Mustang subtly wipes his mouth with his serviette, and Al is certain he’s laughing, particularly when he jerks like he’s received an elbow to the ribs and Hawkeye reaches out to fill her glass with water.  He takes a sip from his own glass, mouth suddenly dry.  He loves the smell of lemons in jugs of water, like something fresh and homelike.  He thinks he’ll try and make the laundry detergent at home smell like that, when he comes home.

He feels a pair of eyes on him and turns to Ling, who is smiling at him.  “What are you thinking about?” Ling asks, cutting into his quail in a dignified manner that befits his status far more than when he used to stuff his cheeks full of food like a hamster. 

Al feels his cheeks turning pink.  “Lemons,” he squeaks. 

“Lemons, huh?” says Ling, and reaches out for the water jug.  He pours himself a plain glass and downs it, then pours again.  This time, one of the lemon slices drops into his glass.  He fishes it out and drops it into Al’s glass.  “There you go!” he smiles. 

Al blinks down at the glass, which is now home to three lemon slices, then turns and blinks at Ling.  “Thank you,” he says after a second.

Ling’s fingers brush lightly against Al’s bicep as he reaches for the bread bowl.  “Anytime!”

Al stares down at his quail, suddenly not hungry at all.  He shouldn’t be here.  He should be at home with Ed and Winry, heating up water and fetching towels.  He feels distant and uncomfortable.  There’s a nudge to his ribs.

“You okay?” whispers Mei.

“Huh?” says Al, coming out of his own head.  “Oh, yeah!”  He plasters a smile onto his face.  “I’m A-Okay!”

Mei gives him a little smile.  “Whatever’s worrying you, I hope it turns out okay!”  She leans in conspiratorially, and Al offers her his ear.  “Let’s head onto the terrace after dessert – I know what will cheer you up!”

Al agrees, if not just to reassure himself that Mei isn’t hiding anything illegal.  Life with Edward has damaged him, he thinks. 

Al manages to eat more of dessert.  It has berries in it, and Al has been craving berries on-and-off since he got his body back, eating Resembool out of its harvests.  He thinks he ought to cultivate his own fruit patch if he ever settles down.  He glances up and Mustang gives him an unfocused wink, gesturing at the berries.  Ed must have tipped him off, Al thinks.  In fact, he’s _sure_ Ed tipped off Mustang about everything.  He knows for certain that there’s a letter exchange between the two. 

The flurry of waiting staff clears dessert, and Mei nudges Al.  Right.  She’s hiding something, and he needs to make sure it’s not illegal.  She clears her throat.  “Alphonse is going to take me to get some air,” she declares. 

There is a murmur around the table, which Al takes as permission to ‘take’ Mei out onto the balcony.  The air feels fresh and crisp on his face, and he takes a moment to absorb the grounds the venue is stationed on.  Before he’s done, Mei takes his wrist and drags him around to the side of the balcony without a window on the far wall.  His heart sinks.  So, she _is_ doing something illegal.

She glances around conspiratorially and then urges him forward, before finally opening her purse.  Oh!  Not illegal at all, and Al’s heart lightens up considerably.

“I _knew_ you’d sneak her in,” he whispers excitedly, giving Xiao Mei a gentle scratch on the head.

Mei giggles.  “Of course I did!” she says.  “I wasn’t just going to leave her in Xing.”

Xiao Mei gives a little squeak of agreement and nuzzles into Al’s hand.  He listens and gives her an extra enthusiastic pat.  She closes her eyes in satisfaction, as if she’s telling Al how very well he’s done. 

Then, of course, Mei catches Al off-guard.  “So,” she says.  “Ling.”

Al laughs nervously.  “Yep!  He’s here!”

“Are you going to make a move?”

Al recoils.  Direct.  Okay.  “I don’t know,” he says.

“Do you _want_ to make a move?”

Al feels himself going very red indeed and has to blink a few times just to be able to speak.  “Sort of?” he says.  He sighs.  “I keep making a mess of things,” he concedes.  “If I ask him out, I’ll probably cry or sweat or both.” 

Mei looks at him as though he has well and truly lost his grip on reality.  “You won’t ask Ling out because you’re scared you’ll _sweat_.”

Al realises how stupid that sounds, and he gives a little laugh.  “You know how it is,” he says, knowing full well that Mei does _not_ know how it is. 

Mei, looking very unimpressed, squints at Al.  “He ate a _shoe_ ,” she points out, “and willingly let a homunculus share his body, and you’re worried about _sweating_.”

“That was before he was Emperor,” Al reasons.

Mei shakes her head, a look of true exasperation crossing her features.  “I’ll never understand this kind of thing,” she muses.  “As if he turned into a different person.” 

Okay.  Al can’t argue with that.  “I guess…” he sighs.  Becoming conscious of the time, Al gives Xiao Mei a last tickle behind the ear, then withdraws his hand.  “We should get back inside before they go looking for us,” he says. 

Mei slips Xiao Mei into her handbag.  When Al walks into the room, he is stricken by one thing, and that is Lan Fan’s silent and piercing glare.  He gives her a smile, but she does not change her expression, and Al wonders what he could have possibly have done wrong.  In lieu of an explanation, he pours himself a cup of tea from the pot that appeared on the table whilst he was gone and adds a generous dash of milk.

Nobody speaks for a long while.  Al grins brightly and looks around at everyone, terrified the silence is an awkward one.  “So, has anyone spoken to Mr Scar lately?”  It’s a desperate grasp at straws.

Mustang clears his throat.  “He’s in Briggs,” he says, “working under General Armstrong on a consulting basis.” 

Right.  The table falls silent again. 

Mei, apparently as confused as Al, perks up a moment later.  “How’s your neck, Lieutenant Colonel?” she asks.

Al cringes quietly.  He would generally not have gone down the route of asking about someone’s life-threatening injury as a means of making small talk. 

Hawkeye looks up at her and smiles softly.  “Almost completely recovered,” she says.  “Thank you, Miss Chang.” 

Mei smiles and takes a sip of her tea.  Al notes that she takes it completely black and wonders how she does it.  “I’m glad to hear it.”  The table falls prey to yet another silence, and Al wishes briefly that he was somewhere else.

Just to escape the silence, Al clears his throat.  “If you’ll excuse me, I need the bathroom.” 

He makes his way to the bathroom.  It’s meticulously cleaned, more like a plaza than a bathroom.  He almost feels like a vandal, using the urinal, but he hadn’t been completely lying when he’d said he needed the bathroom.  He wonders if the table will be livelier when he returns.  He ruminates, wondering how he might kill time in the bathroom, when the door creaks open.

Ling walks in, nods at Al, and silently does his business.  Al’s heart is thumping against his chest, and he wonders if he ought to say something.

“Should you have a bodyguard with you?” he asks finally. 

Ling looks over at him.  “I can handle the bathroom by myself, thanks,” he says.

Al fidgets.  This is a change from the Ling of an hour ago, who had given him lemons and smiled at him.  He wonders if he’s done something wrong, but he can’t find the words to ask.  Ling shakes, washes his hands, and begins to head out.

Al takes a deep breath and clenches his fists.  “Wait!” he calls.

Ling stops and turns.  “What is it?”

“I – uh…”  Al panics.  He doesn’t know.  He doesn’t know why he called out, but now must be as good a time as any.  “I – uh – did you, um, did you want to…”

Ling blinks, his face flat.  “Did I want to what?”

Al squeaks.  “Um, I mean – it would be nice to spend some time with you!” he says, finally.

Lings fingers tighten around the door handle.  “I don’t know what you’ve heard about Xingese concubines,” he says, “but I’m not going to be your bit on the side.”

A strange feeling rises through Al’s chest.  It’s like hot air, and it makes his jaw smart.  “What?”

Ling narrows his eyes.  “I’m not a fool, Alphonse.  I saw how close you and Miss Chang were earlier.”  His voice is carefully controlled, sitting on one pitch as if he’s worried it will waver if he lets it go.  Lan Fan’s expression from earlier falls into place.

Al’s eyes widen, and he stretches his fingers out as if to catch something that’s floating away.  “Oh,” he says, breathily.  “No, that wasn’t…” he trails off, unsure of how to continue.  “Mei and I weren’t…”

“Really?” asks Ling, clenching his jaw.  “It seemed like you were.”

“No!” cries Al.  “No, that’s not it at all!” 

Ling takes a long, shallow breath, and Al realises with a jolt that he’s trying not to cry.  He’s ruined _everything_.  “I came here for you,” he says quietly, “but I can’t just – I can’t just make trips to Amestris.” 

“Ling,” whispers Al.

“No,” says Ling, holding a hand up.  “I couldn’t even write the letter at first.  Everything I wrote seemed – seemed wrong, so I pretended I was being facetious.  I wrote something stupid about poultry and hoped it would fly.”  He finally releases his grip on the door and steps forward.  The door swings closed and makes a loud bang of displeasure.  “And you were – you couldn’t even look at me.”

“I’m sorry,” says Al.  “It wasn’t – I felt…” he swallows.  “I felt stupid.” 

Ling pauses for a moment, silently acknowledging Al’s interjection.  “You and Miss Chang went off together, and around the building where we couldn’t see you, and I just…”  He takes a deep breath.  “I didn’t say anything in Xing because I couldn’t, and I thought I’d blown it.”

“You didn’t,” says Al quietly, and his voice is high and thin.

“Then what’s _wrong_?” asks Ling, sounding helpless.  “You can’t look at me – it’s like you don’t even want to be around me.”

Al inhales and exhales deeply through his nostrils, swallowing as he goes.  “It’s not you,” he says.  “It’s – I shouldn’t be here.”  He rubs his forehead.  “Winry went into labour just before I left, and it feels – it feels wrong for me to be here because of a _crush_ when they might need me.” 

Ling leans against the door, seeming to wilt.  “Ms Rockbell is having a baby?” 

“Yes,” says Al, and wonders if Ling can even hear him over the way his heart is roaring. 

“Congratulations,” says Ling, sounding hollow.

Al doesn’t know what to say.  His hands feel empty and useless.  “Thank you,” he says dumbly.

There is a long silence, and then Ling speaks.  “Is it a crush?” he asks.

Al shakes his head, feeling helpless and lost.  “I don’t know,” he says.  “I don’t – I don’t know what any of this is meant to feel like – I haven’t felt anything like this since I was 10, and I don’t think it was ever like this.  All I know is that I want to be near you all the time, but when I am I feel so anxious that you’ll think it’s stupid that I like you that I can’t say anything at all.” 

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” says Ling.  “That would make me a hypocrite.”  He steps forward. 

“Thank you,” says Al again, and is ashamed to find that his voice sounds tearful.  “I…”

“Shh,” says Ling, and takes Al’s face in his hands.  “May I kiss you?”

Al’s skin is heating up again, but under Ling’s hands it feels natural, like he can cool down again whenever he wants.  “Yes,” he says, “but I’ve never kissed anyone, so please don’t laugh.”

Ling smiles gently, then softly pecks Al on the lips.  He’s gentle, and he pulls away after only a second, looking Al in the eyes.  Al stares up at him, then kisses back.  They stay like that for some time.  It is warm, and it feels like home and comfort. 

Eventually, they both pull away.  “I think we should be getting back,” says Ling.  He pauses.  “When you go home, you _must_ write to me – please.”

Al smiles.  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

*

Al takes the first train back to Central and is in Resembool by ten that evening.  He rings the doorbell, and is greeted by a flushed, bright-eyed Edward. 

“Brother!” says Al.

Ed opens and closes his mouth for a few moments, then grasps Al’s elbows.  “Al!”  He gives an exhilarated laugh, like he’s remembering how to breathe again.  “You – Al, you have no idea…” He sucks in a breath.  “It’s – God, it’s amazing.” 

Al’s eyes widen.  “The baby is here?”

“Sure is!” says Ed and shakes Al slightly in his excitement.  “I’m a dad!” he cries.  “It’s only been – 25 minutes!”  He gulps, then turns away and buries his face in his elbow, sniffling.  “I’ve been on and off like this since I saw him.” 

“Come on,” says Al, quivering with excitement.  “Let’s go upstairs and see him.” 

Once Al is upstairs, he understands it all.  Winry is lying in bed, eyes bagged with exhaustion and face covered with a sheen, but she is smiling like her body can’t physically express her happiness as the baby lies on her chest and suckles.  She looks up when she hears Al come in and holds a hand out.  “Hey, you,” she says.  “Is Ed with you?” 

“Just here,” comes a thick voice from the hallway.  “Give me a second.”

Winry’s smile widens, and Al makes his way over to her and takes her outstretched hand.  “That’s amazing,” he breathes.  “You made that!”

Winry gives a hitching sort of laugh and strokes the baby’s head.  “Yeah,” she says.  “Me and Ed made him, and me and the midwife helped him out.”  She presses a kiss to the baby’s crown.  “Silly boy didn’t know which way he was coming until the last second.” 

“Huh,” says Al, staring down at the baby’s head of gold hair. 

“He’s not done feeding,” says Winry, “but you can touch him.”

Al slowly hovers his hand near the baby, then strokes a thumb over his head.  It is the softest thing he’s ever felt, and Al feels himself hovering dangerously close to tears.  Soft and warm, and like he is exactly where he is supposed to be.  He sniffs.  He’s where he should be, right where he needs to be, for the second time today. 

“He’s done,” says Winry after a pause.  As if to corroborate, the baby begins to make gentle whines.  “Sit,” she tells him.

Al does, and suddenly he has an arm full of baby.  He stares down at him.  He has Ed’s eyes, and he’s a tiny weight in Al’s arms.  He feels a wave of protectiveness overcome him.  Ed steps into the room, eyes red. 

“He’s amazing, isn’t he,” says Ed.

Al can’t speak.  There had been a long, long time where he had thought this would never happen – Ed and Winry would have babies, and he wouldn’t be able to hold them in case he held too tight or hurt them, but their first baby is here in his arms, staring up at him.  Warm and tiny and Al can feel both of those things.

He stares up at Ed, eyes spilling over.  “Thank you,” he says, voice breaking.  “Thank you,” he sobs.  He sniffs deeply.  “You’re going to have a wonderful life,” he says thickly.  “You – you deserve it, both of you.”

Ed’s face is scrunched up at the nose, and then he’s crying too.  He sits next to Al on the bed and rests his hand on the baby’s head.  “You will too,” he tells Al.  He scrubs his eyes.  “You need to write to Ling.”  He gulps.

“I will soon,” says Al softly.  “But I’d like to stay here a little longer.”


End file.
